ad

Labels

Dust Eater Scribometer

About Me

Ronan Cray lives in New York City when he isn't holed up in his writer's shack in rural Pennsylvania. He remains inspired by people and their stories. New York provides ample inspiration for both. Torn between meeting new people and staying home on the couch, he channels this conflict into his work. The result... you decide.

With the exception of the Grand Hyatt in Taipei , this weekend marked the first time I knowingly stayed in a haunted hotel. Located in Ca...

Hunting in Wyoming

Hunting the Grasslands of Wyoming

A friend of mine owns several thousand acres of prairie out in Wyoming. When he asked me to go hunting, I couldn't turn him down. Chasing antelope across the range with the reward of many good meals to take home - who could resist?

I prepared myself for weeks of stalking, camping, and living off the land. The idea of tromping through the cold wilderness with nothing but a rifle, a sleeping bag, and a camp stove to cook whatever we managed to catch or kill, well, that's what men are for.

Antelope are fast and skittish. They can run at over 60 miles per hour. They run like cockroaches, black dots scattering across the prairie. Our rifles have a range of 400 yards. The unforgiving landscape of low hills and wide valleys meant that we would usually spot an antelope at 1000 yards. Most times, he’d spot us, too. Finding a way to get closer proved our greatest challenge. With very little cover, getting close enough to take a shot proved difficult.

Luckily, antelope are stupid. They stop to look at you if you wave a bright orange hat. They watch you while you creep closer. And they're stupid in October for one very good reason...

Sex.

October is mating season. The bucks have one thing on their mind - getting laid. So focused are they on getting that goat poontang, that they pay no attention to those weird two-footed creatures with rifles.

If you think getting laid is hard for you, imagine chasing a female across miles of grassland at high speed while hunters take pot-shots at you.

We woke before dawn, ate breakfast, readied our gear, and piled into the truck. We hadn't gone fifty feet when we spotted one dumb buck on skyline, 238 yards away, according to the range finder. As their guest, my friend gave me the shot. I leaned over the hood of the truck, lined up the sights, and fired. The antelope went down. Two minutes of hunting filled my tag.

They called me "One Shot" after that.

I'll spare the city folk among my readers from the description of the gutting, skinning, and beheading. I had the meat shipped home to New York, with the exception of the heart and liver. We had that for dinner.